Father
by SpellboundWinter
Summary: The dad I never got to know. The brother I never knew. The life I could have had. The normality... Again, it slips away from me. One-shot.


**I wanted to try something out other than romance. I kinda was aiming for a dark undertone.**

**No pairings.**

* * *

As you can see, my life is just a hollow shell of what was and not what is. Unfortunately, I have a run of bad luck. I am not the ideal partner to take to Vegas. All odds were against me. Craig Tucker. A boy of just seventeen. Not to sound like a sob story or a teen with too much angst, it was nothing like that.

Life was difficult yes, but I'm not the type to whine. I like to be withdrawn. Socially inept. I think that's why I can relate to Tweek so much.

You see, life can be more than difficult.

And, sometimes I don't know if I can do all of this myself.

I'm not asking for much, I just want a normal family. Hell, I wouldn't care if we even got along. All I wanted was to live with a mother, a father and a sister. Complete with normality. A normal family. Like everyone else.

But you see? There's the problem. I have a terrible amount of bad luck looming over me.

The day that my dad divorced my mom is when my boring life was thrown into chaos and destroyed my simple childhood. The custody wars were ill fought. Ruby, being the ever so lucky one, was the one chosen to go with my father. Thomas was a massive asshole but he was still a better parent than my mother.

I can remember it like it was yesterday, sitting there at the kitchen table as my father was hauling boxes into his truck, ready to leave forever. I was only eleven years old when my life was thrown into a spiral of chaos, like a bathtub drain when it bends the water into an unwilling whirlpool.

Everything was sucked down and out of my grasp.

I was begging and pleading him to take me in. I can still hear his voice in my mind, clear and crisp as the day he said it. All he muttered was, 'I don't want a bastard kid'.

That was it. The last words he ever said to me, his own son.

It always bothered me… Even today. Thomas didn't want me and went to great lengths to abandon me with my mother. He left me with someone who couldn't even take care of themselves. Now all of this weight was left on my shoulders. It was my responsibility to take care of her.

All the pictures of dad and Ruby were destroyed. I don't even remember what my sister looks like. It's pitiful to say something like that.

...I should have a life. I hate how everything is ripped out of my grasp. Like, nothing I do even matters, that life runs its own course and I can't catch up. My decisions are there to just look pretty but really they have no significant meaning.

I can't even catch a break.

As I said, I'm not asking for much.

I grunted again, trying to right myself on the long hike up the stairs. In my arms, bridal style, was my mother. The only advantage I have is my height. I'm extremely tall. Like a large oak, people can notice me from a crowd, I'm strong.

My mother's no different. Unfortunately, she's heavier than she looks despite her petite frame.

I could feel something warm meet my neck. My mother was peppering it with kisses. I could feel the oily wax from her lipstick that trailed up towards the shell of my ear. I could hear her whisper, "You look like him. You look just like him." Her nails dug into my shirt as she whimpered. "Just like him."

I kicked the bottom of the bedroom door with my foot as the hunk of wood swung open. I had to tip toe over her loads of dirty clothes on the floor. Believe it or not, she used to be a clean freak.

I laid her out on her bed. I turned away. Just as I thought she was asleep, she yanked at my undershirt. I nearly tumbled down to her level. "You look like a splitting image of him, you've grown into such a beautiful young man." her hands roamed over shoulders to the sides of my face, trying to draw me even closer.

I could smell the wine on her breath. She was drunk. Again. Not surprising in the least that I was all alone to take care of someone like this.

"Just go to sleep, please?" I begged.

Not another night of this. I couldn't take it anymore. God, what I wouldn't have given to disappear right out of this place.

Her glazed over eyes were boring into mine. My mother propped herself up on her elbows before patting part of the bedside. The side where my father often would have slept. "Sleep with me tonight? I don't want to be alone."

"No."

"You used to sleep with me and Ruby when you were little. Why not now?"

"Because I'm not little anymore."

"Craig, do you hate me...?" She began to recite her carefully choice words make me suffer. Too bad that script didn't make me feel guilt. All I felt was disgust.

I wanted her asleep at any costs.

I yanked up her purse from her bedside table. Mom usually had something to make her sleep better, the doctors had prescribed t to her and often I would forcibly give her pills. I know it was wrong but at night she's incredibly strange. The way she would touch me... it made me sick to my stomach. It made my skin crawl.

It was too strange.

It wasn't normal.

I pressed my thumb into the little bubble of plastic, letting the capsule fall into my hand. Mother was zoning in and out of consciousness in her drunken daze. I held out the little pill. "Take this."

She gingerly took it from me, holding it up to the bit of light that came in through the curtains, studying the capsule. I plopped on the side of the bed, daring not to look at her.

"It's just a pain pill for your headache." I lied. I must have been such a good liar because of her. It just rolled off my tongue all too easy.

She swallowed it up without another word before curling into me. Her finger's stroking my arms. I wonder, was mom always like this? Did I ever notice this as a kid? Or was it when dad left she started to become more absorbed in me?

"Craig?"

I turned my head back towards her, silently waiting for her response.

"Why do you hate me so much?" She sniveled. "Thomas is the one who wanted me to get an abortion when he found out about you. I didn't. Thomas hated you but I don't. I love you Craig, you're my son. And... I love you so much. I never want to see you leave me, ever."

I can't deal with this tonight.

I let my tired expression fall into my hands as she huddled away, sobbing into her pillow. Jesus Christ. She let out another muffled wail followed by a loud, "please don't leave me too." I placed her purse back on her nightstand.

That's when I noticed it.

It was an obituary, clipped out and circled with a red marker. At first I didn't know what to think of it. Then it all started to make sense to me.

And just like that she drug me up from bed early in the morning, opening the curtains. My mom stirred me awake, keenly dressed.

I kept telling her that we shouldn't. That we both didn't know him enough. But she didn't listen. She insisted that this funeral was important for me. Why me?

When we entered the seemingly depressing funeral home. When I say seemingly depressing, I'm talking about the colors in the room. Everything was such a dark color, even the wallpaper was an ugly dark brown.

Stan's mom stood alone, greeting the people who came in. You know, the formalities. Shaking hands or maybe a hug, the occasional kiss and sob. I wondered where Stan was. I saw Kyle, Cartman and Kenny... but not Stan.

When the line got shorter, Sharon's gaze fell on us.

My mother was about to enter the 'casket room' but Sharon promptly stopped her. "Where do you think you're going? I told you not to come here." she protested loudly, yanking my mom's arm.

"I'm saying my goodbyes, that's all." my mother answered simply, jerking away from her grasp. "Me and my son want to see him. Craig never met Randy and I thought this would be a good time. Please, just give us this moment."

I was taken aback by my mother's words. For the first time in years she was speaking intelligently.

Sharon glared at my mother, then her gaze shifted to me, narrowing her eyes. I'm not sure why. I hadn't done anything. The newly widow spat venomously. "Don't stay long. You _two_ aren't welcome here."

We waited in long line, the one that followed a circuit around the casket and to the bench seats. Yeah, I was making fun of the funeral, what of it? I didn't want to be here. I didn't give two shits and a flying fuck who was dead.

I could feel my mother grab my arm again, shoving me into her side like we were some sort of couple. My stomach practically contracted, I could feel the acid churn in my guts.

It was a simple funeral at best. It was basic, probably because of the early and unpredictable death. Nobody guessed he would die at such a young age. I wonder, did their family talk about dying and death? No, his family was normal.

He was remembered for what he was and his deeds and all that shit.

And then, soon, we were there, looking over at a dead man. I can't remember his name. I think my mom said Randy but I wasn't paying that much attention. He looks the same as he was alive, except he wasn't in his underwear or running up to Stan with that stupid look on his face. That ugly blue suit and that 70's porn mustache... they could have at least dressed him better.

Whatever, he's another dead man to me.

We didn't turn and make our ways to the bench chairs, we weren't welcome so we instead she led me into one of the empty common rooms. It reminded me of a grieving room, somewhere to escape from the casket. I'm not sure but the room gave off a vibe. It was warm.

She sat on a couch, patting the seat beside her like she did so often.

"The service is starting." I said almost dumbly, gesturing out to the ceremony.

"We're not staying for that."

I hesitantly moved to her side, sitting close but not _too_ close. I felt her arms enclose around me. It was strange. Never have I seen some else's mother hang off their kid. Her finger ran through my almost black locks, pulling me uncomfortably close to her cheek.

I just sigh.

My stomach felt even more queasy.

"Craig, there is something I've been meaning to tell you..." For a moment I was curious. For a brief second I wished she would tell me something good. Like she would say something like, 'Ruby and Thomas are coming back'.

But, I don't have good luck.

"That man in the casket is your real father."

...what? My eyes widened as I ripped myself out of her hold.

"I never wanted to put strain on your relationship with me and Thomas but you were-" her voice cracked dejectedly. "He's dead and you'll never get to meet your real father. Randy was such a good person."

...I can't believe it. I growled, gnawing at my teeth.

"Please don't be angry. It was a hard time with me and your father at first. Randy and I used to be close friends. It was just a little affair."

I searched for something, but the words wouldn't come. It would get jumbled in my brain and it would never reach my lips. So, I sat there with my mouth agape. My hands were tight into fists. The words never came.

"You were just a tiny mistake." She covered her mouth. "I-I… No! I didn't mean it like that."

I glanced at her incredulously, getting to my feet. I was too disgusted to even put up a fight.

I could hear her plead as I slipped out of the common room and passed the service that was starting, the 'man of god' starting to speak. But I wasn't aware of any of it. I trudged right out of the front doors of the funeral home and onto the sidewalk.

I need a cigarette, goddamn, do I need a cigarette. I searched my pockets before I pulled out a pack from my dress pants. I wore these same clothes to grandma's funeral... I must have smoked then too.

I only smoke once a year and I only smoke when I'm stressed.

I put the thin cylinder in my fingers and nestled between a few cancer sticks, there it was. I flicked it rather quickly, drawing the flame close before letting the stale smoke carry off to my lungs.

My whole body was rattling. With what, I'm not sure. I was bubbling over with some sort of emotion. Was it pain? Was it anger?

I tread past the side of the building uneasily. My legs were wobbling and I couldn't think straight. The whole world was spinning around me as I let one hand brace against the building.

My stomach leapt yet again. I felt like- like I was going to-

Vomit exploded from my mouth in a mess of orange and bits of black. I stayed there leaned over, gasping at the pain that just rocketed from my stomach. I stared down at the mess of puke, trying to find some meaning in the chaos.

The crotch of my fingers were empty as I noticed my cigarette had rolled into the sludge during the violent heave.

Just great.

There had to be some significance somewhere! There had to be a reason why this was all happening to me.

"Why is this happening to me?" my voice quivered, I was speaking to the splatter. I didn't expect my vomit to be some sort of Gandhi and start to speak words of wisdom.

"Tucker?" I glanced down at it incredulously before I heard a voice get louder. "Tucker!"

I didn't even notice the boy staring up at me from the sidewalk not even two feet away. I couldn't read his emotion. His eyebrow went up questioningly. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I shrugged, recovering from the mental breakdown I was going to have. No way would I give Stan Marsh the pleasure. I plopped beside him, deciding to take up his company.

I dug out another cigarette from my pack. At that time, I was jittering like Tweek. I couldn't hold still long enough to try to light my cigarette. My thumb kept fumbling off the trigger. I couldn't do it.

I was obviously becoming frustrated, my head down in shame, wanting to chuck it as far away from me as possible.

I heard a loud _click_ then a _flicker_ noise. I glanced up toward the noise to see Stan holding out his fancy Zippo lighter. Our eyes met in a mutually. I leaned in to the flame, puffing wildly. I sat back, letting the smoke leave my nose in a haze.

I breathed, "Do you want some?"

"I-I quit a few months ago."

"Why do you carry a lighter then?"

"Force of habit."

There was more silence between us as I twirled the rolled tobacco in my fingers. I did it only when was nervous. I thought smoking would calm me. It didn't. My thoughts wandered back to the man in the casket. Then to Stan. Then back to my mother.

I felt sick again.

"Dad," I started, swallowing roughly. "I mean- why aren't you in there?"

"I can't go see him like that."

"It's the only chance you'll get to see him again. Stan," I said his first name, it was rather unlike me. "You need to do this."

"You don't understand." Stan cried out angry. "What would you know about feelings?"

I glowered at him. Why did everyone think I was some emotionless prick? If Stan could even live in my shoes for a day he would be crying like a bitch. What does he know about suffering anyways?

"If you don't do this, there is going to be a moment in time when you wished you could have."

Stan let out a chuckle. It wasn't a happy one. It was more of a sarcastic, 'how could this have happened' sort of titter. "...I remember telling him how much I hated him and didn't want him around. Now that he's gone…" the poofball boy's bottom lip puckered and his eyebrow's furrowed. "I'd do anything to get him back."

He let his face fall into the small gap of his knees as he held back a sob. It was hard to see another boy cry. Guys don't cry, you know? It's uncomfortable to watch, almost ugly as his face became red and his face contorted. I scooted closer to where he sat, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's going to be alright."

"How can you say that? Your dad is still alive." Stan let out a strangled sigh. "My dad is dead and he isn't coming back."

I was quiet for a second before it dawned on me. The whole situation. Stan and me, our situation. Dad... The dad I never got to know. The brother I never knew.

The life I could have had.

The normality... Again, it slips away. I smiled bitterly through all the madness, mumbling just loud enough for Stan to hear:

"Mine is too."


End file.
